


In Contrition, Comfort

by IShouldBeWriting



Series: Perverse Tenacity [4]
Category: Avengers (Age of Ultron), Avengers (Comics), Marvel (Comics)
Genre: Actus Contritionis, Angst, Catholic Guilt, Community: 31_days, Gen, Latin prayers, Religious Content, Religious Liturgy, Roman Catholicism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-08
Updated: 2013-05-08
Packaged: 2017-12-10 20:09:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/789667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IShouldBeWriting/pseuds/IShouldBeWriting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unexpected voice chimes in on Steve's prayers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Contrition, Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> Canon compliant for the comicverse through the Siege storyline and the beginning of the Age of Ultron.

" _Pater dimitte mihi quoniam peccavi_ 1"

His mouth twisted at the irony of those words. These days he wasn’t even entirely sure which “father” he was asking for forgiveness, much less whether any of those whom he could consider to be his father might be listening. Erskine, Fury, his true father long since turned to dust, " _Pater noster qui es in caelis: sanctificetur Nomen Tuum;_ 2"

His fingers clenched tight around the guard on his battered and scarred shield as he kept watch over the ruins of his city, his world. He kept squeezing, closing his hand tightly enough that he could finally feel the cross which so few people knew about that was buried inside the leather strap. 

Bucky had known. But then, for a time, that shield had belonged to the other man. And while he might not have entirely shared the faith of Steve’s religion, at least he had shared his convictions, had in fact held onto them when Steve himself could not do so at the time. But that didn’t matter any more. Just like confession and contrition for one’s sins no longer mattered. How could anyone have time for something so quaint at a time like this? How could anyone indulge in the luxury of religious ritual when the world was crumbling before their eyes. 

It was a guilt and shame that he carried in secret. A clinging to the comfort of the liturgy and ritual of his childhood even though he was no longer capable of believing that there was a god out there to listen. And every time he indulged in it, every time he found himself muttering the age old prayers yet again, he silenced himself, clenched his hand, clenched his lips, and tried yet again to relinquish that hold on the last bit of what he considered the relics of civilized humanity. 

" _...eaque detestor, quia peccando, non solum poenas a Te iuste statutas promeritus sum, sed praesertim quia offendi Te, summum bonum, ac dignum qui super omnia diligaris..._ 3"

He hated himself for the fact that he couldn’t give it up, couldn’t make his heart let go of the need for that childhood comfort from the boogie man that no longer hid in the dark but now stalked Steve and his compatriots in broad daylight with the intent of their extinction. So much had been lost. Lives, places. What right did he have holding onto this stupidity when everything else had gone to hell? What right did he have to the comforts of believing that a better world awaited him if he simply asked forgiveness for his sins with the utmost sincerity? 

“Ideo firmiter propono, adiuvante gratia Tua, de cetero me non peccaturum peccandique occasiones proximas fugiturum. Amen.4" Steve’s head snapped up, mouth open in a tiny oh of shock and confusion. Shock at the fact that the look on her face was one of compassion and understanding. Confusion that she, of all people, would turn out to be the one who understood this part of him. 

“Amen,” she murmured, reverentially. And a tiny piece inside of him that had been broken for so long slid itself back into place where it belonged. 

“You’re not angry at me?” he asked, voice a quiet neutrality that should have been a warning in its own right to someone who knew him as well as Maria Hill did now. 

“Why should I be angry at you. I may not necessarily believe, but I certainly agree with the sentiment. We need to cling to our prayers, cling to our beliefs, now more than ever. And if believing that asking forgiveness for your sins is what allows you to fight as fiercely as you do each and every day, then I should be standing here praying with you, not trying to take that from you. Robbing you of that strength would make me Delilah to your Samson. This world needs Samson right now a hell of a lot more than I need to go arguing with you over whether or not there truly is a God.”

He nodded. A stiff, tight motion that still spoke of a wariness that she couldn’t blame him for not being able to shake. But then, as she’d just said, she wouldn’t have him be any other way. It wasn’t safe. For either of them. For their world. Let him hold onto the relics of his faith. If that was what it took, so be it. _For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen_

**Author's Note:**

> 1 Forgive me father, for I have sinned.  
> 2 Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name...  
> 3 ...and I detest my sins above every other evil, because they displease Thee, my God, Who, for Thine infinite goodness, art so deserving of all my love.  
> 4 Thy holy grace, never more to offend Thee, and to amend my life, Amen”


End file.
